Frank's Not Coming Home for Christmas
by AngellicRae
Summary: Originally posted Dec 2006, posted to set the context of another short. Rated for language.


I own no-think. JE, on the other hand, owns all the characters here.

**Colour me inspired by a headcold, lack of sleep, and Blink 182's song, "I Won't Be Home for Christmas." **

**Dec/2006  
**

Well, I have to admit that, in all my years, I never imagined myself spending Christmas dinner in my current surroundings. And believe me, there have been more than a few times that I found myself practically pining away for my crazy family and the insanity that comes from any gathering involving them. Times that had me spending Christmas with questionable people, in questionable circumstances, or sometimes both. But today is a new one on me.

I blame it all on the fact that the cable went out. If it hadn't been for that, I'm sure life and dinner would have rolled along as it usually does, but the cable went out and they had to be entertained. God forbid we sit there in silence and just focus on the food. No, we have to have something to do. I'm not certain whose genius idea it was to play charades with that group of wackos, but there we were, dinner finished, almost everyone liquored to the gills because that's the only way any of us can stand to spend a couple of hours together, and someone suggests charades. And believe me, there are more than a few geniuses that I could probably pin that bad idea on. Hell, when you take into consideration who all was involved, that idea would probably take first place in the Darwin awards. Really, who suggests charades with a group that has over half its population carrying at least one gun, if not a back-up gun, knife, stungun, and various blunt objects? Never mind the fact that they're all sore losers. But no. Charades it was.

It would have been bad enough if it had just been the family. But of course the Clown was there, a pity-invite since his own family is Jewish and claim not to celebrate the season although I'm pretty sure I saw his mother at the butcher's buying the most expensive bird they had. He sat there, drunk off his ass and throwing his inane comments at every person who happened to pass through his field of vision. He started to talk to me a few times, but I staved him off with a look. It's possible that my true thoughts were showing through for him, particularly my devout wish that he choke on a missed turkey bone and put us all out of our misery. Or maybe it was just the fact that I kept fingering the blade of my knife every time he glanced my way. Hard to say what clued him in. I'll have to figure it out though for future reference because I wouldn't mind a repeat.

Fortunately for all of us, Kloughn passed out immediately after dinner. I didn't even have to resort to crushed up sedatives in the glass of wine he kept guzzling out of nervousness, although that was tempting, too. We left him collapsed half in his chair but steadily sliding to the floor. I think even Valerie has started to question her rather appalling judgement and has began to hope for a speedy collection on his life insurance.

So, there we were, almost done eating, and the television screen suddenly turned blue. Not even some static on the screen to give us all hope of a speedy recovery, just the blue of a man lost in a sea of desperation. Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but at the time I think I can speak for all of us when I say we were feeling desperate. No one's allowed to watch TV while we eat, but it's always on in the background. The sound provides a level of comfort for even those whose backs are turned to it. Personally, I always position my chair so I can keep an eye on the screen, the better to ignore the insanity going on before me. So of course I was the first to see it happen. I think my jaw may have dropped open and some gravy dribbled out, but no one would have noticed since heads were whipping around to check out the source of the unexpected silence. I wouldn't have been surprised to see one of them drop to the ground in front of it while yelling, "No!" But no one did. We're stoic in that way.

So anyway, the charades. I can't for the life of me remember who suggested it, but it'll come to me. I'll have lots of time to think about it now. Maybe one of the children. I'm kind of hoping not, because I'm looking forward to getting my revenge. So, someone piped up and said, "I know! I'm a fucker and can't bare to be left alone with my own thoughts so let's all play charades after dinner!" Okay, maybe I'm paraphrasing a bit, but the effect is the same. We wound up all seated in that pitifully small living room, watching as one after the other tried to act out movie titles of pictures none of us has ever seen – what Jersey man can honestly say he's seen "A River Runs Through It" and live? - and the titles of books that I guarantee no one in that house has ever read. Hell, I doubt anyone there has ever read anything aside from a take-out menu or the sports page. And as far as movies go, unless it's got blood, guts, guns, or Bruce Willis in it, none of us is watching it.

The first time Stephanie's granny had her turn to act something out, the children were banished to the extra bedroom upstairs halfway through her charade. I was tempted to ask if I could go too, but Stephanie looked like she needed the moral support. Ellen was already having problems keeping her eyes open from all the booze she had consumed, and no one else there was capable of shutting the old woman up, so I stayed. I will admit that I had never imagined it necessary to act out "Hound Dog" with so many pelvic thrusts. The old woman put Elvis himself to shame. I kept waiting for her to put her back out, but none of us was that lucky. And then I was almost wishing for "Hound Dog" when she had to act out "Dirty Deeds" for her second charade.

The third was just as bad. I now think she was stacking the deck somehow, managing to set it up so she pulled all her own suggestions. Who else would think to put "I'm a Slave For You" in the hat? And only she would think to act it out by handcuffing herself to the coat hook on the front door. I tried to tell Ellen just to leave her hanging up there, her tiptoes barely grazing the floor as she twisted her body around trying to get a grip on the chain to bounce it up and off the hook that had seemed like a good idea until she became its prisoner, but Ellen wouldn't hear of it. I think she almost managed to put her own back out getting the old woman down. Edna, of course, was fine, if a little abashed by the need to be rescued. God only knows how she managed to hide the cuffs in that garter belt, and I really could have done without the show she gave when she hiked her dress up over her chicken-thighs to grab them. And of course she was turned away from me when she did it, so I got flashed by the sight of her wrinkly ass in a red thong. I'll never know how I managed to keep from clawing my own eyes out at that one.

Then it got worse. As people began to back out from their own turns, she was there to jump up from her chair, ready to volunteer as a replacement. The woman should be in Vegas, taking the casinos for every penny they have because she could cheat at cards and they'd never know. For the life of me I still can't figure out how title after title of raunchy songs and movies came out of that hat, when beforehand it was filled with things that were so tame, Kloughn was suspected of waking up from his drunken stupor long enough to fill the hat with his mundane ideas.

So on and on it went, Edna picking title after title out of that hat and acting it out in a way that would drive me to drink if she hadn't already done it years ago. As it is, I think it's going to be a long time before I listen to the radio or go to the movies again. Ellen passed out on a corner of the couch, her apron askew in a sure-fire sign that she was gone. What was left of the family all banded together to guess at Edna's charades as quickly as possible. It went unsaid, but we were all in agreement that we needed to get her off the stage as quickly as possible. I don't know why we didn't just stop playing, but we didn't and we all suffered for it.

Then that damn Morelli boy showed up and for the first time since he was eight years old, I was glad to see him. Stephanie and her mother think I don't know about the garage incident, but I do. At the time I wrote it off as a little bit of "boys will be boys," and a whole lot of "I'll kill him if he touches her for a second time." He didn't try anything again until she was sixteen, and by then I knew I could rely on Stephanie to take care of herself. The fact that the little shit left the country immediately after may have had a little bit to do with it, too.

So Morelli came in, took off his jacket, and said, "Charades? I love charades!"

I had hoped that he would put an end to the game, but was willing to just take another person to help keep the old woman off the stage if that's all I could get. Stephanie didn't look thrilled to see him there, but if he was going to keep me from watching my mother-in-law gyrate on the floor for the tenth time of the night, I'd welcome him with open arms.

But then he pulled his song out of the hat and said, "I love this song!" before proceeding to do what I've heard kids refer to as "the humping man" dance across my floor.

Stephanie and her grandmother both screamed out, "Hound Dog!" at the same time. I guess they both recognized Morelli's moves as the same ones the old woman had used earlier in the evening. Stephanie's tone was a hell of a lot more panicked than her grandmother's. In fact, Edna sounded like she was excited to have found a kindred soul.

Morelli seemed like he was too excited by his charade to hear what was going on around him because he just kept doing the humping man on my floor. He started moving his hips so hard that he was pulling himself forward on the floor, the overall effect being that the fucker was now humping his way over to the couch where he stood in front of my baby girl and humped his groin into her face.

I think that's what did it for me. It was grotesque, it was my floor, and it was an outrage. But I held myself calm, holding on to that last shred of self-control. Then, with a wink at my little Angel, Morelli got on the floor and started miming doing it doggy style. "Later," he mouthed at her.

Stephanie blushed fuchsia with horrified embarrassment and my last shred of control went out the window. To degrade her like that, in front of her family... It wasn't acceptable.

I don't remember it, but Edna tells me I let out a roar as I jumped up from my chair and dived at Morelli. I do remember yelling, "No. More. Humping. You. Son of a Bitch," as I pounded him with my fists. Somehow, no one will claim responsibility for it, my hands found themselves wrapped around the Christmas Angel that had previously sat atop our tree and miraculously made its way across twelve feet of space and into my grip. I'm not sure if the angel was chosen specifically because its wings are razor sharp and made nice neat slashes across the front of his t-shirt and into his skin, but I enjoyed the effect, as, I'm sure, did whoever passed it to me.

I was finally pulled off by two young cops I didn't recognize. Ellen later told me that the woman who owns the other side of our duplex called the cops when she heard the yelling through our joined wall. I think my present to the bitch next year will be wrapped in a lit paper bag.

Morelli was curled in the fetal position when they got me off him. He looked dazed and his chest was bloody and all scratched up. He had what looked like the start of a beauty of a shiner, but otherwise his wounds were confined to his chest. Or so I thought. I looked down and saw a multitude of scratch marks across the front of his jeans. They were heavy cotton so the wings hadn't managed to cut through, but the intention behind the scratches was clear for any onlooker.

It took Morelli a few minutes to be able to talk without sounding like he was a pre-pubescent Mickey Mouse, but when he could, he told the cops on scene to arrest me for aggravated assault. Someone almost had to pull Stephanie off him at that pronouncement, but I told her I would go with the cops.

And so here I sit, in the Trenton lock-up at dawn the day after Christmas, reminiscing on another typical dinner in the Plum household. It's a good thing Santa already came or I'd end up with coal for sure.

The sound of a heavy door being opened down the hall from me had me sitting up from my perch on the cell's cot to see who was coming down the hall. Most of the cops here know me and were kind enough to put me in a wing that wasn't inhabited by a bunch of hard-core criminals. All I had for company was the occasional drunk sleeping off the evening's bender, and a couple of people who'd insulted Officer Picky's choice of socks and got an overnight for their powers of observation. Probably most of these people would have fit in with our charades game.

A man dressed all in black, from the edge of the shirt showing through under his black leather jacket all the way to the tips of his black dress shoes, walked down the hall. His hair was tied back in a queue and was almost as dark as the clothes he wore.

"Mr. Plum," he said. He had a quiet voice, but the natural authority he assumed was displayed even in that short phrase.

The adrenaline that had been carrying me through earlier had long worn off and the result was that my voice was almost as quiet as his. "I am. You're Stephanie's friend. Ranger, is it?"

He nodded, and then smiled. The smile almost lit up the dark hallway he stood in. "I hear you've had some problems this evening."

"We definitely had some excitement," I agreed.

A uniform sidled past him to unlock the door to my cell before disappearing again. The look I gave Ranger was heavy with questions.

"Stephanie got ahold of me almost as soon as Morelli had you arrested. It took me a while to track down Juniak so we could get you released without a bond hearing, though."

"Juniak's a good man." I left it unsaid that I was thinking the same thing about the man before me.

"He is," he agreed quietly.

Ranger handed me my winter coat, something I hadn't been permitted to take with me at the time of my arrest. I didn't bother to question it, just accepted with a grateful nod. He led the way down the hall and out of the precinct to a black Porsche parked almost at the edge of the lot.

He drove the way he spoke, quietly and with authority, and I wasn't surprised to find myself in front of my house much faster than even I could have managed with a hack. I undid my seatbelt and opened the door before turning to him.

"Are you busy this evening?"

He shook his head in response.

"I'm sure we'd all like it if you could join us for dinner."

He hesitated a brief moment before nodding ascent.

I moved to get up out of the car again, but turned back to him one last time.

"Bring Stephanie, too."

He smiled in response, another true smile, and nodded a single time.

I got out of the car and let myself into the house to go throw my television in the garbage.


End file.
